


Lavished Massacres and Casual Sacrificial Rites

by zincviking



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Character Death, Abuse, Blood Play, Character Death, Chastity Device, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Foot Fetish, Incest, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual, Physical Abuse, Rape, Sexual Violence, Snuff Films, So much character death, Suicide, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zincviking/pseuds/zincviking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Believing he is a god trapped in a mortal form, Derek Hale coerces Stiles Stilinski into helping him complete ten sacrifices to achieve his divine rights. They go on a road trip, hunting down their victims and Stiles falls further and further into a black hole of love, murder, and sin. </p><p>BE VERY WARY OF THE WARNINGS AND TAGS; THERE ARE MANY TRIGGERS.</p><p>UPDATE: I've put this on Hiatus because I've got a sort of writer's block for this story. I hope to get back to it soon, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Blowjobs and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please be wary of the warnings; they aren't there for fun. 
> 
> This started in my head as something completely different, and it evolved into this. This is a Serial Killer AU, but I think it's a little different from the usual sort. I've had this in my head for about a year and a half, but I only just recently thought it put it to Sterek themes. I modified it quite a lot to fit with Teen Wolf characters, and I hope you enjoy it. I'll add warnings and tags as they're needed.
> 
> This is a completely fucked up story, and abandon hope all ye who enter. <3
> 
> Unbeta'd; all mistakes are my own.

Stiles chewed his lower lip as his fingertips tapped across the many crinkled bags of snacks and goodies at the old, beaten down gas station. His lover, his boyfriend, his entire world stood outside, refilling the sleek black Charger. Stiles' hands were still shaking from the day's activities. He had to grip his wrist to steady his hand as he grabbed three bags of funions and a sealed packet of snowballs. His steps were hallowed sounding as he walked down the aisle to the refrigerators in the back of the station.

Hands still shaking, he pulled out two Dr. Peppers and two waters. He walked back up the aisle, pausing at the sight of a raunchy gay magazine. Temptation flooded his veins, still pumping with adrenaline, and he grabbed it. He laid all of his things on the counter, biting his inner cheek, looking out of the station windows to see his tall, dark boyfriend finish filling the charger. 

  Stiles was still shocked that Derek Hale had even looked into his general direction two months ago. His dark eyes, his smoldering looks, how expressive his eyebrows were, his scruff, he casual smile, his pointed teeth, and so much more had been frequent stars in Stiles' many dreams, most of them wet, but he had never imagined that Derek would ever actually return the favor. They had to be ten years apart, at least, but Derek still had taken interest in him. But then again, it was written in the stars.  

  "Stay classy," the clerk snorted, handing him a bag, his other hand out for the money owed. Stiles, affronted, quickly counting out the exact change, his neck heated from the comment. So what if he wanted to buy a porn mag? He was eighteen, barely, but he was still eighteen! "Fag," he heard the other mutter. 

After paying for the drinks and food and the porn mag, he left the station, blinking back tears of hate and hurt. Derek hadn't gotten back into his car, but was leaning against the passenger side of the car, the side facing the station. It had to be a boiling ninety-eight degrees, but the older man still wore dark blue, nearly black, jeans and a black v-neck shirt, with black combat boots. Boots he had stolen from his uncle. At least, Stiles noted, he had removed his leather jacket. Stiles didn't know how to treat someone for heat spells and exhaustion and faints. 

  He offered one of the waters with a fake smile, putting the bag of goodies into the passenger seat through the rolled down window. His eyes flickered to the dashboard, leaning into the car to check the gas gauge. The keys were still in the ignition. In fact, the car was purring softly. It was on. Then why...Stiles pulled himself out of the car quickly, breathing heavily, looking at Derek with wide eyes. Again? was all he could think of. The first time, well the first time was strange. He had expected to feel pain, to feel horrible, to feel guilt at their actions, and a part of him did. In fact, thinking back, it made his stomach churn. But when he looked up to Derek, to beg him to stop, he saw the pure, unadulterated joy on his face. Stiles couldn't tell him no after seeing that. 

  "What did he say, Stiles?" Derek asked softly, looking at him with such concern and a need to support, to protect, that Stiles knew he couldn't lie. He also knew that Derek just needed the tiniest reason, any reason, and that scared and excited the younger male. Derek hadn't taken the water, so Stiles opened it quickly, taking a few large gulps. Derek gave him a look. He always knew when Stiles was stalling and when he was just being Stiles, and right now he was definitely stalling. He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Derek. What would the older man do? 

  "He...He called me a fag, but really, it's fi- Derek! Derek, come on, let's just, oh god, oh god," Stiles stammered, watching his boyfriend stalk towards the station. The clerk didn't look up, unaware of the impending doom. Stiles looked up and down the long, two lane highway, looking for anyone else on the stretch of heated asphalt. There was no one. 

His eyes returned to the station, long fingers clutching at the bottle of water in his hands. This wasn't apart of the plan! Derek was acting out. Maybe Derek liked the violence, but Stiles supposed he shouldn't be surprised. The sun was glinting off the windows, and Stiles couldn't see what was going on inside that well. He knew he should've stayed by the car, but his curiosity was too strong. It was sick, he knew, because he knew what was happening behind the glass, but he had to see for himself. 

So he tossed the bottle into the passenger seat, and walked as casually as he could up the station. No one was around, but maybe God was watching. Or Jesus. Or the crows on the power lines next to the road were judging him. He didn't know, but he walked casually anyways, hands in his pockets. He paused outside the doors before gripping the handle and pulling it open, stepping inside. 

The cool A/C air hit him like a wall, as did the scent of iron. He tasted it on his tongue, the taste of blood. He swallowed thickly, looking around the station. It didn't seem like anything was out of place, actually. Stiles saw Derek standing in the furthest aisle, his back to the glass of the station's windows. Swallowing his spit again, he stepped forward, one foot after another until he was looking down the aisle that Derek was in. 

"Oh god," he gasped, turning quickly, gagging on his words. He wasn't used to blood, not that much. He covered his mouth, coughing into his fist and biting his knuckles. He braced himself, swallowing down his disgust, and turned to look down the aisle at the macabre scene. 

The clerk's eyes were dangling out of his skull, his jaw broken and askew on his face. One of his arms was out of it's sockets, at an odd angle. Stiles realized that Derek hadn't meant to break his arm, but had only held it so that his target couldn't get away. With the force of his punches or kicks or whatever he had done, the arm popped out of place. The clerk's head was cracked open. It looked like Derek had stomped on it, breaking it like an egg. The skull was supposed to be super strong, but Stiles wasn't so sure after seeing the clerk's brains on the pale linoleum. 

Stiles swallowed again, this time out of emotion. He wasn't scared of Derek, and he wasn't worried about Derek getting arrested. There was no one in fifty miles of this place, anyways. He was just _touched_. Derek had killed someone for _him_ , a worthless human, a pathetic thing on a random rock in space. Derek, with all of his beauty and perfection, had taken to _Stiles_ , a pale kid with gangly arms and legs, no muscle tone, and only sarcasm as a defense. What more, the dark man had proven it by slaughtering a random person for something he had _said_. Stiles was more than touched. He felt wanted, loved, and cherished. 

He walked up to Derek, sneakers squeaking on the blood soaked floor as he tramped through the blood and the brains to reach his lover, trying not to think about it as another human's bodily bits. He didn't care about the bodily fluids and tissues on the ground, he didn't care that Derek had just beaten a guy's head _open_ to spill his _brains_ out. All he cared about was that Derek had done it for _him_. The second he could, he jumped onto Derek. He didn't calculate the blood on the floor, and he slipped, falling against the older male instead. 

Derek didn't react quickly enough to catch him, having been staring at his kill, and Stiles fell into the puddle of blood face first. He groaned, half of his face covered in blood, his shirt and pants soaked with it. He pushed himself up from the floor, slipping on the blood as he kneeled on his knees. He prodded the side of his face with a soft hiss, smearing the blood there. He hadn't caught himself in time, and he felt his skin already bruising on his cheek. He was such an idiot. Only he would fuck up a special jump-into-your-boyfriend's-arms moment. He wiped his hands on his thighs, but his soaked pants only served to stain his hands more. 

Groaning, he looked up at Derek, ready to pout his way to getting a lift to the car, or the bathroom to clean up, when he saw the look on Derek's face. It wasn't amusement, or mocking. His eyes were wide, but dark, his pupils blown. His teeth were worrying on his lower lip, his fists clenched at his sides. Stiles could see the hand he used to beat the clerk's face in, to break his jaw. His knuckles were broken, but he wasn't bleeding. Not a lot anyways. Stiles swallowed thickly, noticing the bulge less than a foot away from his face. 

Derek was turned on, Stiles realized. Stiles knew how Derek reacted to violence, but it wasn't usually so prominent. He wasn't usually _that_ hard just because of some violence. Stiles looked down at himself, covered in blood and bits of brains, and he realized with a sudden flutter of his heart that Derek was turned on by _this_. Stiles covered in blood was one of his boyfriend's kinks. He looked back up at Derek, his own teeth worrying his own bottom lip, his tongue tasting, albeit briefly, the blood that was on his lips. 

Well, Stiles wasn't one to just leave his boyfriend unattended, especially after the chivalry that Derek had just performed. He shifted, sliding on the now smeared blood, to face Derek's groin. Long, nimble fingers undid Derek's belt, black of course, and with ease he undid the button and zipper of his jeans. Stiles remembered when he stuttered to do this, when he hesitated, blushing and stammering, trying to stall. Derek had been patient then, but he was certainly not patient now. His bruised hand gripped the short locks of Stiles' hair, and his other hand smeared the blood that was on Stiles' face, holding them before Stiles' lips. 

He hesitated for a second, but looking up to see the light in Derek's eyes was enough to propel him forward. All he wanted to do was to please the older man. He sucked the blood off the thick, masculine fingers as his own narrow fingers worked the jeans and boxer-briefs down just enough to pull his cock free. The member was already swelling from arousal, and Stiles kissed a drop of precum away from the tip, humming lowly. Derek inhaled sharply as he started to pump the thick meat, blood serving as a lubricant, smearing across the flushed skin. 

Derek was huge, something Stiles admired and adored. When he first saw it, he had blanched, but Derek hadn't taken a 'no' for an answer and had raped him. Stiles knew that it had been cruel to tease and flirt, to grind and touch himself just to end up saying 'no', but it had still hurt _so_ much. It had only been a few days later that Stiles realized how wonderful it had actually been, with Derek's constant advice on it. His soft, heated, dirty words against Stiles' ear after school, telling him that the first time was always that painful, not because he hadn't been properly prepared and definitely not because he didn't want it, because, Derek explained, Stiles _had_ wanted it. Derek had pointed out spots in the evening where Stiles had orgasmed, and it was then that Stiles came around to it. Of course he wanted it. He would always want it, he was Derek's and he wanted everything Derek had to offer.  

Here in the present, Stiles' tongue was sucking on Derek's tip, his hands still stroking the thick shaft. He tasted blood and the bitter taste of Derek's precum, and the tastes together made him moan. But he was taking too long, it seemed, as Derek grabbed his hair, forcing him down onto his dick. Stiles gagged, struggling back, one hand wrapped around Derek's base, the other braced against his thigh. He vomited, but was forced to swallow it again as Derek didn't ease up. Finally, he forced himself to relax, humming softly to calm his heart rate. He couldn't breathe well, but he trusted Derek, even though it hurt. 

Finally Derek starting moving his head. Stiles opened his mouth wider, his bloody hand dropping to fondle Derek as the older man facefucked him, gagging him with each trust into his mouth. It hurt, but Stiles didn't mind. Derek's pleasure came first. He hallowed his cheeks out as Derek trust faster, making sure to let his teeth scrape just a little bit. Derek's noises of soft moans turned into hoarse groans when he did that. Stiles felt a bit proud. He knew what Derek liked, and no one else did. No one else was worth of knowing. 

He continued to fondle Derek, whining as the older man slowed, forcing Stiles to deep throat him. He gagged several times, forcing the bile back down as Derek bruised his throat with his massive cock. Tears were flowing freely as Derek slowly slid back, moaning, Stiles stroking whatever appeared out of his mouth. He felt Derek's balls tense as the older man gripped his hair tightly, squeezing the blood from the short locks. He pulled harshly, hips bucking forward at Stiles continued to fondle and stroke him through his orgasm. 

He swallowed what he could, whining in eagerness as the come started dribbling out of his mouth. He continued to swallow as Derek pulled back slowly. He licked his lips which were smeared with blood and come before leaning forward, sucking and licking Derek clean of come and blood. Derek ran his fingers through Stiles' hair as he cleaned off the down right divine cock before him. Stiles hummed softly as he finished, sucking languidly on the tip with his eyes closed, blissful for a moment before pulling off of him with a pop. He heard the soft groan in pleasure from the man above him before strong hands pulled him up, partly by his hair and partly by his shirt. 

The kiss was heated and rough. Stiles melted under the intense pressure, parting his lips meekly. Teeth clashed for the briefest moment before tongue swirled together. He felt strong, thick arms gather him up, pulling him flushed against the other body, regardless of the blood soaked clothes. Stiles was painfully hard, but he was willing to do whatever Derek wanted to do before his own pleasure. Derek was his entire world, his sky, his heaven. He moaned weakly and in pain as Derek squeezed his arms tighter around him. His hands gripped the black v-neck shirt at his hips, whining in pain, writhing in the grip, grinding their groins together. 

The kiss broke, but Derek left sharp bites on his lips, leaving them even more swollen, before letting him go. Stiles breathed in slowly, grateful for air again. Derek righted himself, tucking his cock back into his underwear and pulling his jeans up properly, securing them and redoing his belt. Stiles was still dazed from the rough kiss when Derek took his hand, pulling him to the tiny and a bit dirty bathroom. 

They washed off the blood, Derek helping pull of Stiles' shirt, Stile helping pull of his shirt, and they rinsed the shirts in the sinks, squeezing out the blood. Then Derek had Stiles strip out of his pants, and they rinsed those as well, and wiped down their shoes. Derek wrung out the clothes as Stile wandered out into the station again, in his plaid boxers and mismatched socks, hands running across the camping supplies aisle. He found the peroxide bottles, and gathered four in his arms. He uncapped one, and poured it's entire contents out onto the bloody aisle and the body as Derek passed him, leaving the station, still shirtless. Stiles repeated the action with the second bottle before gathering up the rest of the peroxide bottles and dumping them in the trunk of the car with their wet clothes and bags. 

Derek didn't let him get more clothes to change into, even though he got a gray t-shirt for himself, and slammed the trunk closed. Stiles, still flushed and hard from the entire experience, his hands shaking as he started to realize what they had done, slid into the passenger seat. The sun had set considerably more since their time in the station, and had warmed the leather seats. Stiles whined at the heat to himself as he watched his lover go back inside. Stiles was unsticking himself from the leather when he returned with several tapes. Security tapes, Stiles realized, as Derek tossed them into the back seat and got into the driver's seat. 

Turning up the music, Derek kept the windows rolled down, pulling away from the station. About five miles down the road, they passed a highway patrolman, parked on the side of the road. Derek didn't glance to him, but Stile couldn't help but stare. Derek had just _killed_ someone, for _him_ , and was so turned on by the sight of Stiles covered in blood, that Stiles gave him a _blowjob_ right in the middle of the crime scene. He had been covered in blood, soaked in it, in fact. He still felt like there was blood in his hair, under his fingernails. It made him feel sick as he realized that he had swallowed some of that blood, along with Derek's bitter, delicious come. Stiles breathed in through his nose, taking a long sip from the opened water bottle. 

But the idea that Derek had murdered someone in cold blood for him made him feel proud and happy. Derek was a powerful being, and their relationship was meant to be. It was written in the stars, after all. Stiles smiled a bit, remembering the night that Derek told him. They had been dating for about two months at that point. 

_"I'm a god, Stiles. I'm just trapped in this mortal form."_ Stiles hadn't believed him at first, but the soft words, his gentle but stern voice changed his mind. How else could he explain Derek's perfection, his beauty? Of course he was a god stuck in human form. It was why he was so blood thirsty. Gods were meant to kill, to shed blood. That was their divine right. But Stiles was special. It was written that a human would help Derek ascend to the heavens, to take his place as a powerful, divine being, and Stiles would be there at his side, turned immortal for his loyalty and love. And Stiles did, he loved him with such an intense passion that it seared his veins. He would do anything for Derek. 

He remembered the moment that Derek said they needed to sacrifice people, ten people, so that Derek could get his powers back, so that he could become the god that he was meant to be. Stiles had followed Derek home without question. He would serve his lord and master without question. Without. Question. 

The music, the come, the heat of the day, all it made Stiles sleepy, so he leaned his seat back a little and dozed off, thinking of their first sacrifice. They had done it only twelve hours earlier, and the thought made Stiles shudder. The acts they did, that they would do again. For Derek, it was natural. This was his nature. For Stiles, it felt wrong, but he powered through. His master needed it, his lover needed him, his boyfriend loved him enough to kill for him. How could Stiles deny him these ten acts of servitude? 

He fell into a deeper slumber, dreaming of a black pit, of a god with eight wings with eyes on the feathers, peering down at him. He dreamt of the god having ten faces, an ugly hyena, a calm and kind zebra, a black pitbull with blue eyes, a soft brown haired hare, a black and brown rottweiler with black eyes, a proud golden eagle, a gentle wolf with intelligent, gentle eyes, next to a sharp looking fox with equally intelligent but compassionate eyes, a fierce lion with a flowing mane, and a proud stag with a rack of antlers extending above all the faces. The hands of the god were dripping dark red blood over the his naked body, his erection flushed against his stomach as he lay on his back, letting the blood drip down his skin. And he felt proud and happy and warm.


	2. Of Hyenas and Snuff Films

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape/Non-Con ahead, along with incest and snuff films.

Stiles stared at the man tied to a simple brown dining room chair. They were in a basement of Derek's uncle's house, facing the man that lived here. He was staring back at Stiles, who was clutching a knife with a sort of vacant expression. Peter scowled, eyes flickering to the looming form of Derek, who was getting things ready on the table. Apparently the ritual had to be done in a perfect way, or else it wasn't worth anything. Stiles swallowed his fear when Peter looked back at him.

"What are you doing here, kid? You seem normal, why are you with my tragically disturbed nephew?" the man asked, but Stiles didn't answer. He only looked at Derek. Tragically disturbed? Of course Peter would say that, as he's facing a particularly painful death. But he would be helping ascend Derek to his rightful, divine place in the heavens. Ten murders, Derek had said before correcting himself to say ten sacrifices. Stiles couldn't agree with murders, but sacrifices, for his beloved, he could definitely get behind, with some struggle with his morals. Sacrifices happened for a reason, and this reason was a good reason. His lover was going to get his powers back, his divine rights, and he wanted Stiles to help. How could he deny?

He looked back at Peter as Derek stepped up behind him. A strong arm snaked it's way around Stiles' waist, pulling him against the firm, brick-like chest behind him. Derek's hand moved lower, gripping Stiles' crotch, earning a soft yelp of surprise. Stiles blushed, looking at Peter who looked on in disgust.

 

***

 

Stiles woke up being carried into a motel room. The sun was below the horizon, lighting up the clouds orange and purple and pink. Stiles curled up against Derek's chest, but was dumped onto the bed. He whined, rolling over onto his back, watching as Derek left the room again. He returned a few short moments later with their bags and clothes. He kicked the door shut, putting the bags on the ground at the foot of the bed. Stiles smiled at him, and Derek smirked back, laying on the bed besides him.

"I saw our next one," Derek whispered into his ear, and Stiles shivered. Coming into the aftermath of a murder, with the brains on the floor, was nothing compared to actually watching it, actually helping with the kill. Tingles of fear and adrenaline raced down his spine and flooded his body. There was a lot that he could handle, broken arms, swallowing blood and come, he could handle laying in blood, he could handle the clean up. But killing someone was hard. He could barely do it last night, why did Derek think he could do it again?

He felt lips on his neck, and he closed his eyes, sighing. His erection from earlier had long since faded, but it had hurt for a while. Now, it seemed that he was finally going to be given pleasure. Teeth nipped his skin, giving off small flares of pain, but he didn't mind as Derek's tongue laved away at the sensitive spots and soothed the itching pain. He felt the suction on his neck, and Stiles smiled a bit. He loved being marked by Derek, letting the world know who he belonged to. A sturdy hand ran over his groin, grabbing it almost painfully.

 

***

 

Stiles tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Derek had pulled Stiles' shirt off, followed by his jeans, and he was standing in boxers, hard and scared. His hands gripped a hilt of a kitchen knife so tightly that his knuckles were white. Derek was now behind Peter, kissing up and down his neck. It shouldn't been so wrong, if it wasn't so fucking hot, and Stiles inched forward. He held the knife out, and his eyes connected with Derek's. It was an assurance. He was doing this right. He could practically hear the purr from Derek. _Good boy, Stiles._

The knife sank into flesh, and it was both frightening and exhilarating. Peter tried to scream but Derek covered his mouth and all that came out was muffled yells. No one would hear him. Stiles pulled the knife away, shaking violently. Blood. Blood, there on the knife. Stiles gagged, but swallowed back the vomit. He wasn't going to fuck this up, not for his beloved. It had felt weird, stabbing someone, like he didn't stab someone. It had been easier than he expected. Sort of like cutting into a rare steak. It didn't feel like he had hurt Peter, and he probably could've pretended he didn't if weren't for Peter yelling obscenities against Derek's hand.

"Go on, Stiles. You're doing so well, baby," Derek murmured, watching Stiles with a deep smolder that went straight to his dick. He tried to swallow again but his mouth was too dry.  Gripping the knife even harder, Stiles tried to brace himself. It was unyielding in his hand and he stabbed Peter again. He hit something though, and he realized with a start that he had hit a rib. Peter kept swearing, struggling against his bonds as Derek bit and licked and kissed Peter's neck. Between kisses, marking him up, he commanded stiles to keep stabbing him. "Remember, you have to stab him ten times."

Stiles blanched. Ten times? He had to stab him eight more times? For some bizarre reason, all he could think of was the movie Chicago. He had never seen the stage version, but the movie one was great, he supposed. And all he could think of from that movie was _"he ran into my knife. he ran into my knife **ten** times." _ Laughter bubbled up in his chest, and he let it out. It sounded strangled, insane, and a bit desperate, and more than just scared. What was he _doing?_ No, he had to stop, this was _wrong_! This was against human nature.

He withdrew the knife and stabbed him again. And again. He counted under his breath. This was like washing the dishes or sweeping the floor. It was a chore, it was something that had to be done, that was all. _Eight...nine...ten_. Peter was bleeding everywhere, his shirt stained with it, but he wasn't dead. How wasn't he dead yet? He just got stabbed ten times!? Stiles started hyperventilating, but Derek, keeping his hand on Peter's mouth, pulled Stiles towards them.

Stiles stumbled, dropping the knife on the ground and was forced into Peter's lap. The blood smeared against his exposed chest, and his erection, something that had not gone away throughout the entire _stabbing_ , was pressed between his body and Peter's body. If he still had a boner, did that mean he _liked_ this? Well, of course that's what it meant. He was turned on by this, by the blood, by Peter's pain. It was clear that Derek was, at least, and that's what mattered the most.

Derek kissed Stiles over Peter's shoulder. Peter writhed under him, pushing up against Stiles in a vain attempt to get away from Derek. The jostling made Stiles blush as pleasure coursed through his body. He felt disgusting and he tensed up, hands gripping Peter's shoulders, ready to push off. But Derek kissed him again, soft and deep and passionate and Stiles melted, hands running down Peter's arms. What was going on anymore? He didn't know, he felt like his head was spinning. This just seemed like a completely fucked up dream.

There was a sickening sound, like a popping, and Peter screamed anew against Derek's hand. Derek broke the kiss and Stiles' fingers shakingly ran over the lump that was Peter's joint, out of his shoulder socket. Derek was strong. Stiles stared, wide eyed, as Derek did it again with Peter's other arm. This was Derek's uncle, the man who helped raise him, who guided him through life. And he was hurting him, casually, without remorse. It scared Stiles, but made him feel so alive. Energy was coursing through his body, and he was tense. Maybe ready to run, but he didn't want to run from Derek. He loved Derek, he trusted him.

Stiles stood, knees shaking, as Derek gagged Peter with an oily cloth. Stiles was worried about sanitation, but then again, the man had ten stab wounds. Oil on his tongue was probably the least of his concerns. Binds were undone, and Peter was pushed forward onto his face. He couldn't catch himself, even if he tried, which it looked like he did. His face hit the ground with a gross crunch, and blood spurted from his nose and busted lips. Derek, grinning kindly at Stiles, stepped down onto Peter's back. He gestured to the chair that Peter was just in, and Stiles went to sit down obediently. He stepped over Peter's writhing body to do so, and he felt like he was on a battlefield. What was he even doing anymore? Was this even reality?

He sat and Derek leaned over, kissing him so softly and lovingly, Stiles wondered why he would ever doubt Derek again. This love was real, why wouldn't everything else be real. He cupped Derek's face, feeling the scruffy whiskers against his palm. With ease, Derek pulled Stiles' cock out of peephole in his plaid boxers, stroking it assuredly several times, earning several wanton moans. Needy, clingy, baby Stiles, but he didn't care. He was so hard, and he wanted Derek so badly. But Peter groaned in pain as he struggled to get up, to get away. And Stiles hated Derek's uncle with all of his being at that moment because it distracted Derek.

His lover forced Peter's to his knees, Peter's profile dripping blood before he gave in, resting his head against the concrete floor of the basement. Concrete never got blood out, Stiles thought numbly, as if they had accidentally cut Peter, and he spilled blood on the floor. Like he hadn't stabbed Peter ten times. He frowned, eyes flickering over the blood, not watching Derek's actions. Then he made eye contact with Peter, and his heart sank. Deep blues, staring at him, accusing him. Peter was still living, and he was using his last few minutes on this earth to blame Stiles. Stiles quickly looked to Derek, and realized what his lover was doing. Removing Peter's pants was taking up his entire attention, so Stiles looked back at Peter, eyes wide. Innocent, he was totally innocent. Derek hadn't told him this was going to happen. But then again, maybe Derek hadn't known. Maybe it was a whim, heat of the moment thing. And Peter only stared at Stiles. He was dying slowly, but still dying, and Stiles saw the knife on the ground, coated in Peter's blood. He couldn't keep his eyes away from Peter's though, as Derek's first thrust pushed Peter's body forward, dragging the side of his face through blood and against concrete.

 

***

 

Stiles moaned in discomfort. Derek was fiddling with the t.v. in front of the bed, his wide back to him. Stile enjoyed the view. He was on his forearms, panting, sweat soaking his body, dripping off his nose, sliding down his thighs. His boxers were discarded on the ground next to the heater, which was blowing hot and dry into the room, as if the California heat wasn't bad enough. Derek then turned, standing in front of him, fully clothed, and sweating just as much as Stiles was. He grinned lazily as he slowly pulled off his soaked shirt. Stiles whined, watching, wanting to lick the sweat from Derek's abs, tongue twirling into the happy trail there. Next came his boots, still speckled with blood from the murder of the day. Stiles shivered, thinking of the clerk, dead on the ground. Did they find him? Did they know?

Derek's foot was in his face, and the command was clear. Stiles didn't need words anymore, not usually. He licked the bottom of Derek's still sock-covered foot, groaning as the taste. Sweat and dirt and leather, all mixed in the taste of dirty cotton. He carefully bit the toe of the sock and pulled it off with ease, refusing to use his hands. He earned a soft chuckle as the other foot was presented to him. He repeated the process. But the foot didn't move, so he reached forward, groaning as his back arched even more as he did so, to lick at Derek's toes, sucking each one.

"Good boy, Stiles, good boy," Derek cooed, and Stiles flushed with happiness. He didn't particularly like foot play, but Derek did. Derek loved when Stiles gave him a footjob. He'd come so much, and then lick the come from Stiles' toes, which made him squirm. He hated people touching his feet. Once he told Derek that, but then Derek just kept him tied up and tickled and licked his feet until Stiles cried, sobbing, begging to be released. Derek just kept playing with his feet for hours. The message was clear. It didn't matter what Stiles liked.

Derek dropped his foot and undid his belt, pulling it out of the loops slowly and folding it in half. He offered the edge to Stiles, who took it into his mouth, biting it, holding it. He knew the punishment if he let it fall. Derek would rape him with the biggest dildo he had, Derek would burn his balls with a curling iron, or a hair dryer if he had to settle. Derek would put a cock ring on him and tease him and pump him and fuck him until his prick was swollen, red, and turning blue. Then he would get the ring off and if Stiles came, he would be punished even more. He always came. He was always punished more. So he learned never to drop anything that was given to him.

Derek's jeans were peeled off of him, the sweat glistening, and Stiles' mouth was watering. The heat was getting to him. He was becoming drowsy, sticky, heated. He wanted to come, and he was barely hard. He wanted to sleep, but he knew Derek wouldn't let him. He kept his eyes opened, watching with an almost desperate plead of release. This was already torture and Derek was just getting started. His boxer-briefs came next, peeled off him and added to the pile of clothes on the floor. Stiles' drool started to drip out of his mouth, watching as Derek stroked himself.

"You were so good today, Stiles. You're such a good boy," Derek murmured, walking around to the side of the bed, running his hand down Stiles' slick spine. His fingers ran down his crack, bring out a soft groan from the younger male. The heat in the room was stifling, suffocating. He felt like he was going to pass out. The bed dipped behind him, but he didn't dare look. He was put into his position for a reason.

Stiles yelped in surprise, nearly dropping the belt, as something wet and warm and soft pressed at his entrance. The realization that Derek was rimming him made Stiles hard, and he moaned, nearly letting his head drop forward in pleasure. Instead he stared forward, whining, wanting to writhe back into Derek's face. It felt _so_ good. He didn't realize this would feel so good. Is this what Derek felt whenever Stiles rimmed him? Another moan escaped him as Derek pressed into his hole, and he felt pleasure course through his body, hotter than the air in the motel room. He felt like his skin was on fire. Sweat pooled under his arms and knees. It dropped down his abs, ran along his dick and dripped off the tip. It stung a little, but it also felt fantastic.

Derek stretched him slowly, and it felt so wonderful. Stiles closed his eyes, which nearly rolled back up into his head. The pleasure was so delicious. He moaned again, muffled by the belt, which he bit into hard, whining as a finger pressed into him, alongside the tongue. It started to stretch him, slowly, curling with each thrust into him. Stiles gasped around the belt, arms shaking, thighs quivering, toes curling. He was impossibly hard now, and he wondered how he hadn't came yet. Derek never bothered to stretch him so thoughtfully. It was either do it himself before hand or deal with the pain. He groaned weakly, whining, almost pushing back into the pleasure. He wanted more.

Derek’s scruff scratched him, and mixed with the pumping of his now two fingers and the soft lapping of his tongue, Stile was in heaven. He drew in a slow breath, whining for more. He was panting, sweat dripping down his forehead, into his eyes. He blinked, but the stinging didn’t go away. It ran down his nose, dripping off the tip, dripped into his mouth and onto the leather of the belt. He sucked on it, savoring the salt. It dripped down his neck in waves, sheets of sweat. The dip his lower back was a small pool of it, his shoulders hunched, his muscles straining. He was going to come.

Three fingers burned, but it was a good burn. It eased slowly into pain, and he gave a throaty moan, the tendons in his neck sticking out in strain. His eyelids flutter and his body quivered and his senses were exploding. The scent of leather and sweat and precum, the heat on his skin, the taste of salt and leather and dirt still lingering, the feeling of being filled so slowly and with such care. His own sounds from his throat, the slurped groans from Derek. He was ready to succumb; he wanted to be filled, he wanted Derek to fuck him, slow at first, building with incredible skill to a head-shattering orgasm. Stiles wanted it so much.

The tongue left him and Stiles whined at its loss. A moment later the fingers left him and he wriggled in anticipation. The bed dipped awkwardly, and Stiles licked at the belt in his mouth. He arched his back more, presenting his ass more to Derek. Rough, callused hands ran over his sides, up and down and over his hips. Nails nipped into his hips, digging down to the bone it felt. Stiles whined, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to squeeze the sweat out of them. One hand left his body, but the other rubbed the sweat pooling on his back into the skin, over his shoulderblades, down his spine. It felt good, cooling. Derek bent over him, his breath so cold against his back. Stiles grew goosebumps and he whined more. He needed… _he needed…_

The t.v. came to life, and Stiles blinked rapidly, watching the grainy film. A cold dread filled him as Derek aligned himself. He pushed in slowly, lips kissing away drops of sweat, lapping up the puddles on his skin. Teeth nipped and pulled, bringing out colorful flowers of red and purple on his back. Stiles always bruised easily. The tape played, and Stiles felt his stomach clench. He didn’t want to watch it, but he knew that Derek would know if he closed his eyes. Looking away would just be suicide. So he kept watching.

Derek moved into him slowly, his groans like a rumble of thunder. His god, his beautiful Lord, he wanted to make him come, but Stile was scared. He didn’t want to watch this. He saw himself on the screen, buying the goods, the drinks and the snacks and the porn mag, left in the car, forgotten. He swallowed what spit he could, the rest dripping down his chin, down his neck, mixing with the sweat. Derek grinded into him, hands gripping his hips tightly. He would be bruised, but he didn’t care. Derek moved back slowly, impossibly slow, and moved back into him. The thrusts were slow, long, and drawn out. Stiles felt the burn, Derek was huge, and three fingers were never enough, but the pain seemed like a world away.

Video Stiles left the screen, and he saw that the clerk had been palming himself, a busty women porn mag under the counter. The idea made Stiles quiver. The dick, he had been hard, and Stiles had been feet away from him. Derek laughed into his ear, a cold chuckle. Stiles didn’t want to watch, but he didn’t have a choice. Derek had planned this out. He was going to give Stiles the best sex of his life while making him watch a snuff film. His heart thudded steadily behind him; he was enjoying this, Stiles knew, even as he dreaded it. Derek rocked into him slowly, his girth stretching him, filling him, and Stiles wanted to cry because it was so hot. His skin was on fire and his cock ached for friction. His body was working against him, grinding back into Derek just as he would thrust forward. The thrusts were getting faster, filling him deeper, Derek pushing up to his hilt, making Stiles take all of it.

The video progressed. A minute passed and video Derek entered the scene. He didn’t stop to ask questions, he didn’t warn him, he just grabbed the clerk by the collar of his shirt and dragged him over the counter, elbowing him hard in the face. It was quick work to get him to the aisle that Stiles had found them in. And the brutal slaughter began. Stiles watched as Derek punched him and kicked him in the face. Derek had stepped onto his jaw, and pulled him up by his arm. It hadn’t been an accident that his jaw was broken, this his arm was twisted out of place. Stiles stared as the clean aisle became dripping with red, blood pooling on the ground. Derek thrust into him hard suddenly, pounding into his prostate. Stiles cried out against the belt, tears springing to his eyes from pain, pleasure, and horrified disgust. In the video, Derek only stopped a few moments before Stiles finally re-entered the screen.

Stiles watched in whining horror as he watched himself give Derek the blowjob, blood dripping down from his clothes and face, smeared into his hair. Behind him Derek thrust faster and faster and Stiles felt closer and closer, screaming and groaning and moaning and pleading against the belt. He didn’t want to come to this, he didn’t want to come to a snuff film, to a murder and a bloody blowjob. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and a callused hand gripped him. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, bucking weakly into the hand. Derek groaned, deep, against his back, before biting the back of his neck, pumping him in time with the thrusts.

Stiles couldn’t hold out, not with such beautiful friction on his cock and being filled so wonderfully. But he tried to keep his orgasm back until Derek had reached his climax, but his lover slammed into his spot and twisted his hand just so, sending sparks of pleasure to his balls. Muscles tightened and Stiles let out a strangled sob as he came onto Derek’s hand and the bed comforter. The sob faded to a soft moan of pleasure, his eyes looking up to see the face of Derek, looking into the camera before disappearing. The screen went black. That must’ve been when Derek got the tapes.

The grip on his dick tightened and Stiles whined in pain, writhing back into Derek. He was going to get his punishment for coming before the older man, but instead he got soft chuckles and kisses as he rocked into him. Stiles realized with a hum of pleasure and disgust (how could he find anything pleasurable right now?) that they had reached their climaxes as the same time. He felt Derek’s seed within him, dripping out of him. Derek finally pulled out of him with a squelch and a pop and Stiles groaned in soft pleasure, feeling the come mix with sweat, before he felt Derek lapping at his hole. Stiles nearly passed out, the pleasure, the after-glow, the screaming torment of his tired muscles, the heat, and the incredibly hot imagery of Derek eating the come out of his ass. His soft tongue ran up and down his thighs, licking away the rest of the come and sweat that was there, and then he left the bed. Stiles saw him lick the come from his hand, Stiles’ come.

If it were possible, he would’ve flushed more. As it was, he felt like passing out from the heat. He felt like he was going to have a heat stroke. How did Derek look perfectly normal? Well he supposed that Derek was a god, and this heat wouldn’t be anything compared to what he supposed the sun would feel like. Gods bathed in the sun’s heat, right? He didn’t know, he couldn’t think clearly.

“Let go, Stiles,” came the soft chide, and Stiles realized with a start that Derek had been tugging on the belt. He dropped his jaw, which was sore and his mouth was left surprisingly dry. He swallowed thickly, panting some. Licking the sweat from his lips, he leaned up to accept Derek’s kiss. It was rough and deep and passionate and beautiful, and Stiles whined, wriggling against the bed. He was so tired, so drained, milked of energy and sperm and he just wanted to sleep. He wanted Derek to turn on the A/C and he wanted to sleep curled up against him. Instead Derek pointed to the bathroom. “Take a bath, and make the water lukewarm,” he ordered. Stiles stared at him for a second before pulling himself from the bed. He felt shaky, weak, like his limbs were made of rubber.

The tile beneath his feet was cool and he nearly just laid down right there to fall asleep. But he obeyed his lover’s orders, and filled the bathtub with lukewarm water. He slipped into the water and sighed in comfort. It felt cold against his skin, and it cooled his body down. He felt like he was on fire, but the water doused the flames. His body grew limp and the water slowly felt warmer and warmer, and he felt cooler and cooler. Finally he washed himself enough to get the scent of sweat and come off his body and out of his hair. And to get any feeling of blood off his skin.

Nearly an hour later, he left the tub to drain and he entered the room. The door was opened and Stiles was happy that he had a towel around his waist. He grabbed just-below the knee jean shorts and pulled them on quickly. He’d go commando, he didn’t care. Derek was sitting on the curb outside the room, having a drink with a stranger. A few people were milling around, talking. It was one of those motels, then, Stiles thought. The kind that was more like apartments. But he was tired. So he laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. He’d talk to Derek later. For now, he’d just sleep.


	3. Of chastity and athletes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of lulled chapter, but next one should be pretty interesting c: hope you enjoy, and be mindful of the warnings!

The blood filled his senses. The scent of copper, the gushing red around his head, on his hands, the slippery touch of it, the taste of copper; in his ears, he heard the pounding of his own pulse, blood rushing through his veins carrying copious amounts of chemicals and oxygen to his body, flooding him with adrenaline. Was that Biology or Chemistry? A little bit of both? Stiles couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. He was standing, without clothes and shivering, in the cool basement. He was gagging, breathing in blood, sucking it down. Derek held his hair, forcing his head back, pouring the clotting blood down his throat, forcing it into his system. He had disobeyed, argued, and the only person that he could blame was himself.

Peter was dead. Stiles had watched the light of life leave him and he felt the overwhelming need to cover all the mirrors in the house. Peter seemed like the type of guy who would haunt his murderer. _He was a murderer._ The realization was dawning on him as Derek cut open Peter and squeeze the blood into a clear solo cup. Stiles wanted to make a Twilight comment, but that would mean admitting that he read Twilight. However, his literary dignity was quickly pushed to the back burner when Derek gripped his hair and forced his head back and poured the blood, streaming, into his agape mouth. Stiles coughed and spluttered, the blood spilling from his mouth. He was choking on it and swallowing it and he didn’t know which was worst. ‘Why didn’t Derek warn him?’ was his first coherent thought as he sobbed around the gushing blood. Derek let him go and he fell to his knees, but Derek covered his mouth before he could vomit. 

“Swallow it, Stiles. And keep it down, or I will fuck you up,” the bulkier man growled against his ear. Stiles gagged regardless, vomiting into his mouth before Derek plugged his nose. With no other option, he swallowed quickly, gripping Derek’s bicep. Tears streamed down his face as Derek let him go and pushed him forward into the body. Stiles scrambled back, stammering gibberish and sobbing against his hands. Snot mixed with blood as he kicked Peter’s body in an attempt to get it away. What was he doing, what _the fuck was he doing?_ But the body didn’t move. It was all dead weight, and hundred and some odd pounds of muscle and flesh, dead. He would start to rot. Stiles gagged again, but managed to keep down the churning contents of his stomach. 

“W-Why? Oh god, oh god, oh god, why, oh fuck, what the fuck,” he gasped, his mouth running faster than his brain could keep up. He was still crying, but it felt surreal. What had he done, what had he done? He sucked in large gulps of air, trying to calm down, trying to make sense of this. He was dreaming. He held up his hands. Five fingers on each. Fuck, okay, read, read something. Letters don’t make sense in dreams. Before he could find something to read, however, Derek gripped his neck and pulled him to his feet, staring at him. Anger flashed in his eyes, and Stiles could’ve sworn they were red for a second. Or perhaps that was the reflection of the blood still dripping down his face. 

Dread sunk his heart to his toes, and he felt his pulse in his neck against Derek’s fingers. It was very quiet for a moment before Derek tightened his grip, doing a soft sigh. Stiles coughed, gripped Derek’s wrist. “I give you all of this, Stiles, and you’re going to be a rude little mortal?” were the soft words that Stiles shook his head at. _No, no, I love you, I’m sorry,_ he wanted to scream, but he could only choke and cough, struggling for air. Survival or submission. He had to choose and he wasn’t sure which one was the right choice. Fear erupted through him. It may not matter. Derek may kill him regardless. “There is no god. I am the god, do you understand, Stiles?” his lover asked slowly, pulling Stiles along on his tip toes. Stiles followed obediently, whining for air, gasping for it, choking and coughing and turning blue. Derek stared at him for a moment with those crazed eyes, the eyes of a god. 

And then, like it meant nothing, he let him go. Stiles fell to his knees again, gasping, gagging, and coughing. His throat hurt, everything hurt. His lung gulped in air, sucking up the oxygen and he felt his brain come alive again. He was okay, he was alive. “Kiss him.” Stiles paled, lifting his eyes from the dirty, blood splattered concrete floor to face the pale, ripped, clotting face of Peter Hale. His eyes stared through Stiles, and chilled him. He could practically hear Peter’s spirit scream at him that he better not, that if he valued his sanity he wouldn’t. But sanity? What sanity was this? Love was insane, it made no sense. Life made no sense. The world was nothing that could be predicted, and he loved Derek more than his sanity, and he really, really loved living. So, with shaking hands, he cupped Peter’s cool face, clotting blood smearing onto his hands even as the blood from his hands smeared onto the dead skin. He leaned forward, kissing the man softly at first. “I said _kiss_ him, Stiles, not give him a secret.” 

Swallowing thickly, Stiles shuffled his knees forward and tilted his head and pressed his lips to the cold ones, teeth dragging in the lower and sucking on the cooling flesh. It was still soft. Frowning, he pressed more, begging for a reaction from Derek. Without thinking about it, he pushed this tongue into the man’s mouth. “Good boy. Stand up.” Stiles retreated from the body, and stood, facing Derek, fearing his wrath, fearing the man he loved. 

“Good boy, Stiles,” the dark-haired monster repeated, leaning forward, kissing him deeply. Stiles responded eagerly, grateful that he was still alive by the grace of this glorious being. He let Derek force his tongue into his mouth. He pretended to fight a little, just how Derek liked, before submitting, letting rough, course hands cup his face and force his head back. Stiles sighed softly, his heart still hammering, but he was in safe arms, as safe as he could get, as safe as he deserved. He was scared shitless, but he loved Derek and love was crazy. 

***

The day was dreary and overcast, and Stile felt rather contented. He watched Derek get ready from the bed. It was early, earlier than Stiles was willing to admit that he got up. The birds were just starting to chirp in the trees outside their motel room, and though the curtains were drawn, Stiles could tell it was still dim outside. The sun was just starting to rise. But he didn’t move. Derek had showered with the bathroom door open, and Stiles watched with a small smile when his lover left the shower, water running down his beautiful body. Even though Derek hated his body (it was woefully mortal, after all) Stiles adored it. 

Derek had dried off slowly, clearly putting a show on for Stiles, who started to feel hard and uncomfortable as his member pressed against the rough denim of the shorts he wore. He whined some, shifting, but not daring to rub himself. Derek would punish him for seeking pleasure without him. Then Derek pulled on black jeans, no underwear, and a tight fitting black v-neck tee-shirt. Then he crouched to rummage in his duffel for a moment, pulling out a weird device. Stiles sat up a little, resting on his elbows, watching silently. 

“Take off your pants,” Derek all but growled. Stiles quickly moved to obey, undoing his shorts and pushing them off, stifling a snarky comment that he was wearing shorts, not pants. But Derek didn’t look like he was in the mood. Stiles’ cock was half-hard, and as the material of his shorts rubbed over his length, it had grown a bit harder. Derek moved in between Stiles’ leg, holding up the device. “This is going on you. You’re not allowed to come anymore.” Stiles stared at him as Derek started to stroke him. 

“W-what,” he gasped, in pleasure, the idea of being forced not to come making him harder and more aroused, defiant. “N-no, why?” he whined, moving his hips up, thrusting into Derek’s hand. He yelped when Derek slapped his balls, curling his toes in pain. 

“Don’t ask fucking questions, you fucking slut,” Derek hissed, releasing his cock. Edging, that was a thing right? Stiles had read about it, and had decided, promptly, that it was the worst torture known to man. And he had been right. He wanted to come, he needed to come, he was so close, but there was no friction, no pleasure, he was just left to suffer. Derek stood again, going to the fridge, and rummaging for ice. Stiles’ heart fell and he squealed, scrambling back when Derek pressed the ice to his swollen cock. Derek scowled, and grabbed his ankle, pulling him back down, pushing an ice cube into him. Stiles whined in discomfort as the ice cube was forced into his body. His body heat started to melt it, but it felt _so_ cold. 

Biting his lower lip, he watched as Derek put the chastity device on him. He winced when it pinched him, but Derek adjusted it and then secured it with screws and a small lock with a ‘D’ engraved on it. Stiles realized that it would serve as an insurance of sorts. If he broke the lock off, he couldn’t just replace it. It would be obvious. Stiles bit his lower lip, frowning. He was never really fond of chastity for men or women. He didn’t really see the point of it, and it wasn’t a turn on for him. Derek smirked though, as the lock clicked and Stiles swallowed his doubts and fears. He trusted Derek. 

“Get dressed. We’re going to get breakfast.” Derek said, leaving the bed to get socks and his uncle’s boots on. Stiles watched him for a moment, before crawling off the bed, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He turned to each side, eyeing the chastity device with a frown. He really, really didn’t like it. It was uncomfortable, small, and it made him feel completely helpless. But Derek wanted it, so Stiles didn’t voice his complaints. He feared what Derek would do if he complained. He grabbed a pair of jeans that were loose in the crotch, and a pair of a boxer-briefs. He dressed slowly after ice cube melted and he toweled off, getting used to the added weight on his junk. Still he refused to complain, and pulled on an iron man graphic tee and a dark grey sweater. 

When he got his shoes on, they left. Derek led him to the 24 hour diner that was next to the motel. The town was sleepy, quiet. Stiles wasn’t sure how to feel about the chastity device. It was weird, but the more he got used to it, the more he could pretend that he liked it, so he would pretend for Derek. 

Derek entered the diner, letting the door close behind him. Stiles sighed and followed him in, sitting across from him at one of the window booths. Stiles scanned the menu briefly before deciding on the biggest breakfast they had, four stacked pancakes, five pieces of bacon, five pieces of sausages, a plate of hash browns with over easy eggs, and a bowl of cheerios, with a glass of orange juice. Derek didn’t comment, but he still looked to be in a bad mood, so Stiles stayed quiet. While they were eating, Derek kept an eye on the road. 

“Did you know that the cross country team runs this road for training?” Derek suddenly asked, giving Stiles a look that sent shivered down his spine. Fear bubbled in his stomach. So soon? Another murder so soon? They had killed Peter two days ago, and a random clerk yesterday, they were setting up a pattern. Stiles knew all about patterns, MOs, everything that the police would put together when they started to realize that this was not multiple murderers, but one serial killer. Stiles paled a little. Not one serial killer, two. A couple. And they would be able to determine that as well. Stiles had watched his father, a sheriff, put together cases like this, gathering evidence and putting the murderers behind bars with relative ease. Bringing justice to the families of the victims. Stiles had always believed he was going to do that with his life as well, help maintain justice. Fate, of course, had other plans. 

“You don’t say,” Stiles replied as he stuffed his face with pancakes wrapped in bacon. Derek smirked a little, sipping his black coffee. “Did you ever do sports?” He suddenly asked, curious about Derek’s past. He didn’t really know a lot about Derek expect for the Uncle and Mother, two sisters, a fire suspected to be arson. There wasn’t much else that he knew. Derek shrugged, eating a piece of bacon. 

“Basketball and baseball mostly,” was the reply. Stiles was a bit surprised. Considering Derek’s mood, he had been expecting a growl and a command to shut up. Stiles leaned forward, smiling a bit, asking silently for more information. Derek gave him a levelled look before rolling his eyes. “I was good at both. Helped my school win championships. What about you, Stiles?” He sneered and Stiles flushed, looking at his plate. Derek knew that Stiles played lacrosse. Actually, sat on the sidelines and watched with a glum heart at the other players play. He was a glorified towel boy if he was being honest. 

“Oh you know, just whatever comes up,” he said as he continued to eat. Derek snorted in amusement. He always loved to put Stiles down. Silence fell between him as Stiles munched on his breakfast. He had lost his appetite to be honest, but he wasn’t going to say that. Derek would skin him for wasting money and food like that. So he forced the food down, listening to the classic rock that the waitress was playing as she texted from her spot behind the counter. She’d come over every now and then to check on them, and Derek would flirt shamelessly with her. It made Stiles flush with anger and embarrassment, but what could he do? Derek was his lord, his master, he was allowed to do anything or anyone he wanted. Stiles stabbed a sausage angrily when she teased back and left after refilling Derek’s cup with coffee. 

Derek only snickered. Then he got really quiet. Stiles looked up quickly, wondering if he had done something wrong. Stiles had never hidden his contempt for Derek’s flirtations and random fucks, but perhaps Derek had grown sick of it. Instead, Derek was staring out the window. The sun had finally risen, and they were facing the west. The California landscape was cloaked in a golden light, the shadows of the rolling mountains still stark blue. It was beautiful, Stiles supposed, but he knew that was not what Derek was looking at. A group of high school boys, in running shorts and sneakers, some with shirts and some without, were running by. There were about ten of them, and they were grinning, exchanging quick, breathless words. Their calves tensed, and gave as they ran. They were athletes. They were gorgeous. 

“That’s him, Stiles,” Derek whispered as he looked back at his food, whispering so very softly into his coffee cup before sipping from it. “The one in the black basketball jersey, and black and red shorts.” He murmured, eyes going to check where the waitress was. She was in the kitchen, talking with the cook. Derek turned his eyes back to the boys as they ran up the street, heading for the diner. “Their coach’s brother is staying in town…in the room next to ours.” Stiles realized that this was how Derek knew about the path of these boys’ run, how he would continue to get information. 

“The man from-“ 

“Yes, shut up,” Derek snarled, glaring at him. Stiles shrank back into his seat and sipping his orange juice as the group piled into the diner, hot and sweaty, breathing heavily. They took random seats around the diner, sitting with friends and the like, laughing and talking about whatever came to mind. The waitress came out with the cook with premade breakfasts for them. Bowls of cereal and fruits mostly. A few of the boys orders bacon and paid for that, others chose to get eggs. Stiles tensed when he realized that Derek’s new obsession was sitting across from their booth at the counter, talking with another boy about going clubbing tomorrow night. 

Derek continued to look out the window, but Stiles felt the air grow tense. It was alive with electricity. If he could feel it, Derek definitely felt it. Stiles felt, with a start, Derek’s boot pressing into his crotch. He bit down on his last piece of sausage to swallow a whimper of pain and pleasure, his cock pressing against the device uncomfortably. He felt very naked, very aware of his body, with all of these boys around, their cocks free while he was contained and trapped. Derek was smirking, but he let up on the pressure, finishing his second cup of coffee. The waitress came by quickly to refill it and Stiles’ orange juice before she moved on to tend to others. 

Stiles startled quickly when the boy, the one in the black jersey and black and red shorts, came up to their booth, smiling awkwardly. “Hey, uhm, do you guys have extra ketchup?” he asked shyly. Derek smiled charmingly and Stiles managed a smile, rubbing the back of his neck. There was a sharp kick to his shin, but it was relatively painless. But it was a sign. What was he supposed to do? Stab the boy in the face now? He looked quickly to Derek who was staring at him for pointedly. Oh… _oh_. Stiles swallowed a bit, looking at the boy with a bit more of a charming smile. Well he hoped it was charming. 

“Only if I can get your name,” Stiles said casually, picking up their ketchup bottle. Derek managed to look between horrified and apologetic. He went to tell Stiles off, or something, Stiles wasn’t sure, but the boy laughed, ducking his head shyly. Stiles liked him. He was a bit sad of his fate, but he knew why Derek picked him. There were rules, certain types of people that needed to be chosen and killed for Derek. He just matched one of them so well, and it was prophecy. 

“Danny,” the boy said with a smile, chewing his inner cheek for a moment. Stiles smirked a bit, but it felt wrong. He was going to lure this boy to his death, just like Derek wanted him to. He didn’t even know if this was what Derek wanted, he was just making a guess. Derek should’ve known to cover this tactic with him before they did this, to make sure what certain looks meant and the like. Stiles was stumbling around in the dark here. Guilt gnawed on his insides as he leaned forward a bit, holding the ketchup bottle up. 

“Stiles. And, uh, if you want to text or call me, my number is 503-555-0118,” he said in what he hoped was an attractive flirtatious voice. Derek looked a bit surprised, but he was smiling a bit, glancing between Stiles and Danny. Danny smiled a bit more, taking the ketchup, letting their fingers touch. 

“Definitely noted,” he said, staring at Stiles for a moment, before turning and returning to the counter, ignoring the chuckles and sneers of his friends. Stiles breathed out slowly, looking to Derek who winked at him, drinking his coffee and finishing off his omelet. Stiles stuffed his face as gracefully as possible, wanting to leave. He felt like vomiting. Derek asked the waitress for the check as Stiles scraped the last bit of hash browns into his mouth and downed the rest of his orange juice. They paid and left the diner, Derek giving him a pointed look. Stiles swallowed a bit, but turned to make eye contact with Danny, smiling a bit, before leaving the diner. He shuffled after Derek to their motel room. Derek turned on the t.v. when they got inside and a knot formed in Stiles’ stomach. He was already queasy, he didn’t think he could watch the murder tape again. But Derek just flipped it to a news station. He laid down on the bed and gestured for Stiles to join him. Kicking his shoes off, he joined Derek. Curling up against him, Stiles rested his head on Derek’s chest, listening to the thud of his heart, watching the news. It was boring stuff mostly, cats in trees and crap about local schools, sports updates, the weather, hum-drum shit. Stiles watched with bleary eyes, his large breakfast and the account he wasn’t used to being up this early making him a little drowsy. He heard Derek laugh, a deep rumble in his chest, and Stiles blinked a few times to clear his eyes. 

He breathed in sharply. The news anchors were talking about two murders. One in the sleepy town of Beacon Hills, the other in a gas station off a two lane highway headed to Meadow Valley. Stiles shifted a bit to get a clearer look at the television. His father had found Peter’s body. It was void of prints and evidence, the police report, but they’re looking for any connections with the newer body. 

_“At this point in time there is nothing connecting the two crimes; as far as we know they are separate incidents. A murder and a gas station burglary gone wrong.”_ Deputy Parrish stated on the television. Derek groped Stiles’ ass, making him whimper and shift back into the touch. Parrish had always been attractive to him, and Derek knew it and loved to torture him over it. _“We will keep the public updated as we find out more,”_ he said before turning to go back into the police department. It cut back to the anchors as Stiles’ phone buzzed from his pocket. 

“This day is just getting better and better,” Derek growled against Stiles’ neck, biting his ear lobe. Stiles flushed, trying to get comfortable as he fished his phone out of his pocket. His heart fell when he saw the text, Derek reading it over his shoulder with a bark of laughter. “He’s just so eager and cute, don’t you think?” He sneered cruelly. Stiles chuckled a little because that’s what he was supposed to do. Killing Peter was different than this. He didn’t have to bait him to his death, for one, Derek had just brought Stiles down into the basement and Peter was already there, ready to be killed. But Peter had also been a terrible person; he was cruel and sadistic, he manipulated people and lied to them. Derek alluded to many of his crimes, and Stiles could underside why Peter deserved to die. But this was different. This was a boy his age, barely starting his life, shy and sweet and gentle and fucking gorgeous. But Derek was his master, and he obeyed without hesitation. 

_From: 503-555-0134_  
Just now  
Hey:) its danny. I was wondering if u wanted to go dancing with me 2morrow? 

“Yes, you do,” Derek said, tracing circles into Stiles’ side. “Ask him when and where, and what you should wear,” Derek murmured, kissing Stiles’ jaw. He swallowed, wanting more than anything to not text the boy back. He was baiting the butterfly into the spider’s web. But he obediently tapped out a reply and then saved Danny’s number as a contact. 

_To: Danny_  
Just now  
Heyy:) Id love 2 where and when? Is there a dresscode? :) 

“This is a trail,” Stiles said softly as he sent the text. Derek chuckled softly, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, pulling it a bit, but not telling him to shut up. “So we should consider that when we, you know…” Stiles trailed off, making a slicing motion across his neck. Derek laughed again, and tilted Stiles’ head up to kiss him deeply. They ignored the buzz of Stiles’ phone as Derek bit his lower lip a bit harder than usual. Stiles’ gasped a little, feeling his cock press against the device. It always killed his boner, yet never made it go away completely. He hated the device already. 

“That may be, but risks are a part of this. The prophecy will protect us,” he said against Stiles’ mouth, pressing another open mouthed kiss there. “Reply.” He murmured. Stiles hummed a little. He loved the feel of Derek’s scruff against his own smooth face. Though he wasn’t completely smooth. He hadn’t shaved for a while…he was getting distracted. He pressed another kiss to Derek’s lips as his fingers unlocked his phone. Reluctantly turning away, he read the text. 

_From: Danny_  
Just now  
Club called the banshee @ 8 and the tighter the better its rave:) 

“Excellent,” Derek whispered against Stiles’ neck, grinning a bit. “I’ll get you something to slip to him.” 

“Whoa, what, we’re doing it tomorrow?” Stiles asked, turning to look at him. Derek gripped his neck tightly, glaring down at him. Stiles gasped a little, nodding. “S-sorry, n-no, p-p-please, I’m sorry,” he gasped out and Derek released him with an annoyed sigh. 

“You are pathetic,” he said, kissing him roughly. “Reply. Talk to him. I’m going to set some things up. Don’t fucking leave this room, and send nudes, slut. Make him thirsty.” Stiles shrank back from him at the name. Derek was the one making him into a slut, why did he call him that? But Stiles nodded obediently, texting Danny back. 

“I had a dream,” Stiles suddenly said as Derek pulled on a leather jacket. Derek didn’t make any reply, but he didn’t tell him to shut up. “It was you. After…after everything. You had ten faces.” Derek looked at him at that, smirking a bit, raising his eyebrows. Stiles swallowed a little. “I could make them all out, but the clearest one was a hyena. Was that Peter?” 

“Was it?” was the only reply he got before Derek left, pulling the door closed loudly. Stiles stared at the door as he felt his phone buzz in his hand. He shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable in the device and on the bed before asking Danny what he felt about chastity. This was going to be a long day.

**Author's Note:**

> A few tumblr gif and picture sets helped set the tone for this, and there's plenty of other inspiration from movies and books and other Serial Killer AUs, but any familiar tones, themes, ideas, or chapters are all coincidence. I hope you guys all like this!


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